


Into the Fire

by EnterWittyNameHere



Series: The Cannibal and the Canary [3]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor is his own warning, Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor tries to be a soft boi, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda?, PTSD/Triggers, Physical Abuse, Poor Reader..., just kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnterWittyNameHere/pseuds/EnterWittyNameHere
Summary: You made a grave mistake in not seeking shelter from the annual Cleanse; however, it's not just the wrathful Angels you need to be careful of...
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader
Series: The Cannibal and the Canary [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689610
Comments: 4
Kudos: 122





	Into the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back again lovelies! A quick moment to note that because I am writing purely self-indulgent nonsense, the one-shots will not be posted in chronological order, nor will they necessarily all link up perfectly. I hope I write each short in a way that allows it to stand on its own, but also in a manner that overall lends itself to little world-building details I include. They may seem jumbled, but I hope it will still be entertaining. We will be jumping around on the timeline a lot. 
> 
> Unbeta'd as usual. I hope you enjoy!

You certainly hadn't meant to _sleep in_ on the day of the annual Cleanse. Granted, you had only survived a few, still relatively new in your damnation. And in all fairness, you had worked later than usual the night before, randoms off the street seeking solace and comfort in your offered curves.

In hindsight, you weren't sure if the extra cash had been worth it, all things considered. The extra lie-in meant you had less time to seek out shelter; something that was precious here in the Outlands where you carved out your all too banal existence. Still, for the most part you found life outside of the hierarchy of Hell to be a preference-your sensitive ears hardly ever picked up the irritating sound of radio static out here...

For the next 24 hours, the denizens of Hell would be hunted by the Almighty's winged-army, and you had not found a safer place to hide away. Generally, you moved into the inner cities, finding a small hole or crack in some buildings foundation, the towering infrastructure offering plenty of chances to stow away.

Therefore it was with mounting anxiety that you jumped up from the pile of rags, which served as your bed, your feet hitting the dirt floor at the impossibly loud tone that signalled the start of the Cleanse. The small shack you had managed to build for yourself (your shadows had been absolute _dears_ in helping find the materials) offered no resistance to the descending Angels and their Holy wrath.

Your shadows materialized around you, their own concern evident in the way their forms wrapped around you, as though urging you to be more proactive. You waved them away with a trembling hand; you realized the danger you were in.

You moved the scrap of wood you had re-purposed into a door, and peeked out in order to survey your surroundings. From the inner city, you could hear the beginning chorus of screams and terror as the Angel's began their work, an eerie orchestra of horns from on-high piercing the air. It immediately made your ashen skin erupt in goosebumps and with one hard, panicked lurch of your gut, you felt nausea rise in your throat. They sounded much too close-

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you pushed the wooden scrap aside and immediately stepped through the shadows. You were thankful that your powers remained in tact despite the Holy onslaught; perhaps there were recesses of Hell that the Lord could not even touch.

Remaining as concealed as possible, you set a blistering pace as you began to search for _anything_ that might serve as protection. It was only after a few blocks of travel that you realized it had been a mistake thinking you could hole up within the city. Every nook and cranny you stumbled across seemed to be taken; you had briefly celebrated a small dug out base at one of the many Pot Shops, before you came face to face with a sharp blade of a willowy insect-demon. With hissing, clacking mandibles and a few short jabs to show you they meant business, you turned tail and scampered back to the alley. You could have easily overpowered the other, but a small part of you did not feel _right_ in condemning another simply because you made an error in judgment.

The clashing sounds of trumpets and warfare (some sinners attempted to fight back, although their powers were no match) made your ears flatten, your muscles twitching as sparks of fear set off under your skin. Your shadows began materializing around you, whirling in a protective manner, their fevered whispers in your ears,

_run/run/run fast/fast/fast-_

you stepped forward once more, transporting yourself to another city block.

It was with paralyzing horror that the sound of feathered wings shifting behind you reached your ears. Your prey-animal drive seemed to kick in, and you froze. Your shadows disappeared as your concentration dropped, focusing then on moving your sluggish feet so you could turn.

You had seen Angels from afar before. Nothing like the images on the stained glass windows of the church you had frequented in your lifetime, they were massive creatures with wings almost too large to be logical. Their halos burned brightly with blistering, white light, nestled between towering curled horns. Their faces were masked by frightening countenances, one eye crossed and their smiles all threatening teeth and much too wide.

This one was no different.

The Angel grinned, perhaps thrilled that a new target had practically happened out of thin air in front of it. You barely registered the pile of blood and gore that lay at its feet as it turned to face you fully, long and sharp spear twirling through the air until it came rest at its side, wings unfurling to their full width. The Angel tilted its head, perhaps wondering if you would flee; your feet felt as though they had cemented to the ground, and your vision tunnelled with the threat of unconsciousness. Realizing you were an all too easy target, the Angel stalked forward, spear swinging out in front. You seemed to finally comprehend you were about to be _impaled_ and your powers surged, as though the sudden threat triggered some deep defensive mechanism.

Your antlers spiked abruptly, hair swirling around you in a tangled flash. The sigils that covered your body flared to life, burning hot and bright. Shadows burst forward with such speed that the Holy creature actually faltered and dropped the point of its spear.

That was all you needed, and with a snap of your fingers, your shadows flew forward to circle the Angel, their long pointed claws scratching and clawing, ripping at feathers. They seemed to warp and grow, until they swirled like a cyclone around the Angel's form. You caught glimpse of the surprise in its one visible eye, before the darkness swallowed it whole. Knowing your time was limited, you spun on your heel, ignoring the itch in your antlers from their abrupt growth. You just needed to find something to seek shelter in-

The blade seared with some profound burn, quite unlike anything you had felt before, both in life and death. In a blink, it was embedded in your upper shoulder, near where the joint met your arm. The pain blinded you briefly and you stumbled, dropping to your knees, hands scrambling for purchase on the crumbling wall of the building you collapsed against.

Massive wings beat the air, stirring up a breeze that tickled your hair. You gazed wearily up at the Angel, noticing it looked rather undamaged despite your shadows best efforts, its masked face seemingly contorted in its fury. You could feel your warm blood dribbling steadily down your front, and your breath came in clipped, agonized puffs. You tried to shift your weight, but moving only served to work the blade deeper into your flesh, and you were already on the verge of losing consciousness.

The Angel stalked closer, its wings folding along its body. It twirled the spear, seeming to take pleasure in watching your pathetic struggling on the ground before it. From somewhere close, you could hear another sinner's scream abruptly cut off, and your Angel grinned manically. The sharp point of its spear settled against your sternum, point digging into the flesh.

It paused suddenly and tilted its head, as though it had caught a sound above the continuous din of the massacre. A tingle settled over your skin, before it moved up and settled in your antlers, causing the fur of your ears to bristle. Though you were about to be Erased, your delicate ears twitched at the sound and you wildly thought that you caught the sharp note of some jazzy tune.

Radio static ruptured from nowhere, as though some invisible dam had burst. You startled, sharp pain blooming in your shoulder to the point that your vision swam and you felt woozy again. Your vision clouded; the street and the Angel still looming in front of you were abruptly swallowed up by shadows once more, although this time they seemed more visceral in nature. From this great swirling depth, music blared and you heard Cab Calloway cry that he'd be glad when you were dead-

_You rascal, you-_

Your vision suddenly turned _red_ , and you felt strong, bony fingers grasp your uninjured arm. Head ringing from your injured state and onslaught of radio static, you shut your eyes, dread setting in your gut.

_Out of the pan and into the fire, as your Daddy always said._

You felt your body move forward, urged by the pressure on your arm. You were immediately swallowed by pitch-darkness, hollow voices crooning and sighing in your ears. You moved through the shadows smoothly before you were pitched on your feet. The sudden shift in your stance surprised you, and your legs were unable to hold your weight. You crumpled once more to the dirt; however, when you blinked the grime and dust from your eyes, it was no longer the Angel that towering over your prone form.

“Good golly, darling!” An all too familiar voice cried dramatically. “That was a close call, yes indeedy!”

Your head swam, and you tried desperately to focus your eyes. You gut settled heavily as you found yourself facing more endless teeth-

“Quite the pickle you've gotten yourself into, my dear.” Alastor peered down at you, mild irritation written on his face, his infamous grin strained.

You couldn't quite seem to be able to gather yourself enough to focus on him, head wobbling weakly and your entire form shaking. Still lodged in your shoulder, the blade burned. The collar of your simple dress was soaked, sticky with your blood, and you were aware of the grisly stain spreading down your chest. Above you, Alastor tutted.

You were shifted upwards, the ache in your shoulder flaring enough to stop any protest you may have had. Strong _, oh so familiar,_ arms cradled you as though you barely weighed anything. Your head found support against a slim chest, grateful that the stability allowed the world around you to come into focus more. You were bleeding all over his red suit...

“Al,” You croaked past a bruised throat; had you been screaming at some point? You couldn't recall. Your next words caught in your throat, as you peered around at just where you were.

It was a swamp. You felt bile bubble up in your chest, hot and sour, as you were moved deeper into the greenery, the soft lap of the nearby water sounding deafening to your ears. The last time you had seen such a sight had been the night you had died.

“N-no, Alastor,” You struggled in his grasp, anxiety and long buried fear consuming your thoughts, the buzz of adrenaline surging through your battered body and lending you strength. You dug your claws into his back, subconsciously seeking purchase to give yourself leverage.

“Shush, doll.” He murmured, ears twitching with irritation. Despite the surprisingly gentle hold he had on you, there was a hint of anger in his tone.

His cabin stood, as it always had, settled in the lush greenery and humble in stature. Had you still owned your heart, it may have well burst from your chest as anxiety welled up from some deep long-forgotten recess. Despite your continued efforts to free yourself (never mind you wouldn't actually get anywhere in your state), you soon found yourself inside, deposited on the old settee. You peered up at him then, eyes glazed with emotion and panting in fear.

You made quite the tantalizing vision, blood soaked clothing, breast heaving and your lips trembling. The Radio Demon eyed you closely, tutting once more, before snapping his fingers. A small box appeared on the table a few feet away, and he returned to your side holding what looked like an old medical kit. He settled himself next to you, and with a small flourish, laid the kit open on his lap.

You swallowed dryly, “A-alastor... Alastor, please...”

“I'll have to pull _that_ out, I'm afraid.” He motioned to the blade still in your flesh, a heavy sigh cutting the edge to his voice. “Try not to squirm now, there's a good girl.”

You blinked. Considering how things had last played out in his cabin, his concerned tone over having to possibly hurt you with the knife's removal made your rebuttal die on your lips. His slender fingers curled around the hilt and with a swift but smooth movement, the blade slid from your shoulder. Immediately, blood spilled forth, the lost of pressure causing the wound to open and re-saturate. You both seemed to freeze, aware of the heavy scent of iron in the air and the fact that you were quite vulnerable, pressed to side of the furniture and his much taller form next to you.

“Al,” You said quietly, watching as his eyes flickered ominously. “Th-thank you.”

He shook his head, your words bringing him out of his stupor. His nostrils flared, but he made no move to touch you. He remained quiet; the hairs on your arms stood to attention as the prickle of static raced over you.

“I-I mean it, I thought I was a goner there for a bit, but y-you showed up just in time. You always did have a flair for a good entrance,” You stammered nervously, hoping that if you could keep him engaged in conversation he might come to his full senses.

He raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. You tried to flatten yourself more into the arm of the sofa, but he immediately overtook whatever space you tried to maintain, kit discarded to the side. He pressed his claws into the soft underside of your chin, forcing you to look him squarely in the face. His red eyes glowed despite the cabin being well lit, and his grin spread like oil until it was all pointed teeth. A deep chuckle escaped him, but none of the humour reached his eyes.

“Why, sweetheart, I thought we had an understanding,” He crooned, breath tickling your cheeks. His eyes trailed the gently weeping blood from your shoulder down to where the stain was still steadily spreading across your chest and now abdomen. “You are _mine_ , and if anyone will send you off to whatever awaits us sinners beyond this place, it will be me.”

Your breath stuttered in your chest, bile burning the back of your soft palate. You were painfully aware that in your current state you were no match for him. The continued absence of your shadows only made your fear spike.

“In fact, I'm quite cross with you, my dear,” Alastor tapped your cheek with one pointed claw, eyes flickering to dials. Your flesh lit up, sigils flaring to life. “You've been rather careless with my property after all. Besides the horrific manner in which you give yourself away to any old Joe, you seem content to further damage what rightfully belongs to me, by trying to take on an _Angel_ of all creatures-”

“I-I wasn't trying to-”

He pinched your cheek roughly; you gave a slight squeak in response. His lips twitched, belaying his enjoyment of your discomfort.

“Come now, darling. Perhaps this should be your awakening, hmm? Do you understand now why I offered you a place at my side when we first fell? Why, I'll admit you've done better than I assumed you would on your own; however, the fact remains you are utterly _useless_ without me in the long run.”

He snapped his fingers again, and as if some invisible force had lifted, your shadows came slithering out from under the settee, winding along your form. A few coiled up Alastor's arm, coming to rest about his neck where they whispered eager words of admiration. You felt a pang of betrayal; their joy at seeing their original master was obvious.

“Now!” Alastor clapped his hands together. “Let's get you tidied up, shall we?”

His grin was sickly sweet as he offered you a hand. One of the shadows unfurled from around his neck and reached for you, but you batted both away, standing on shaking legs at your own doing. Alastor simpered at you;however, his touch was none too gentle as he manoeuvred you into the kitchen. He was clearly intent on ignoring your attempt at independence.

The light was brighter here, and he sat you on one of the simple wooden chairs before moving around to hover over your wounded shoulder. You felt a chill of fear run up your spine; he was much too close to such a vulnerable spot. He clicked his tongue, before moving to the sink. You heard the splash of water and he returned within moments to press a luke-warm cloth to the cut. Your breath hissed past your teeth, one fang biting your lip to keep from making any more sound.

You eyed him wearily then as he cleaned up the wound, dabbing away blood. One of the shadows reached out with the kit, and he took it from them with a curt nod. The shadow then moved to settle around the crown of your head.

You watched as he threaded a small suture-needle, about to ask why he couldn't just use his powers to patch you up, when without warning he jabbed the point into your skin. You cried out harshly and instinctively went to move away but the glance he sent you made you still. He made quick work of sewing your flesh; you supposed his skills came from his hunting, both animal and human. He had always possessed a kind of grace with anything _sharp_ , and the needle was no different.

After a moment, he leaned back, humming to himself. He waved his hand and the needle disappeared.

“There you are, sweetheart! Right as rain.”

“Thank you,” You muttered dourly, your earlier unease now settling into a mild annoyance. You had a feeling he had chosen to attend to you by hand as a way of punishing you.

He shook his head, his radio cycling rapidly, and drummed his fingers across the table top, up along your arm, until they came to rest at the nape of your neck. You froze, skin tingling.

“Now, darling, you wouldn't be feeling ungrateful of my attention?” He was grinning but his timbre hinted at the threat behind his words.

Perhaps he sensed the tone of your next words, for as you went to open your mouth to rebuke him, his claws suddenly dug into the soft spot at the base of your neck. Panic bloomed in your chest, and your breath caught. He moved just enough to be able to apply a faint hint of pressure against your windpipe, warning clear. It was an all too familiar feeling, his large hand settled at your throat. Caught up in the moment, you did not realize that he had moved even closer until his nose traced a path along your cheekbone. You could not help the shudder that wracked your frame then, and you felt him smile against your skin.

He crooned your name softly, and bent his head further, until his breath tickled over the now-closed wound on your shoulder. You briefly wondered if he was truly about to sink his teeth into your flesh, when something hot and firm trailed over the sutures. You shuddered, a small sob escaping you as you realized he was in fact dragging his tongue across your skin, seeking out what remained of your dried blood. You weakly raised your arms to push him away, but the moment you made contact, he _growled-_ low and feral - coarse static saturating the air. You quickly dropped your hands, deciding that simply allowing him to have his fill might allow things to end.

Instead, it only served to allow him to move lower, humming pleasantly to himself as his lips and tongue moved across your clavicle, until he reached the collar of your dress, crusted in blood. He gave a slight nip to one collar bone before drawing back and surveying you, a self-satisfied smirk upon his lips. A phantom crowd cheered and jeered distantly, the disturbance in the atmosphere prickling your ears. You grit your teeth to keep yourself from lashing out, which only caused him to smile more, teeth stained red.

“You'll stay the night.” Although his tone was suddenly bright and airy, you knew better than to challenge his statement. He stood then, and moved about the kitchen. You watched him wearily, before realizing he was in fact prepping dinner. Your stomach churned at the thought.

“Perhaps you should go change, darling. I believe there may be something suitable tucked away.” Alastor turned to smirk down at you, towering from his full height. “You remember where?”

Not trusting yourself to speak, you nodded before moving off down the small hallway. You found the sparsely decorated bedroom purely from muscle memory. You stopped in the doorway, staring at the room, noticing immediately that it hadn't changed since you had last since it, while still alive.

A decent-sized bed sat in the middle, with a worn looking side table to the left. Your stomach clenched; there was a photo frame on it, and you instantly recognized the _old_ you, dressed to the nines and beaming while clutching Alastor's arm. He too was dressed quite dapper, charming grin on his face and bespectacled brown eyes lingering on your form. You hadn't noticed the hunger in his stare before; it sent a shiver racing along your skin.

You huffed and rubbed at your arms, moving along to the dresser posted in the corner. You reached out, but hesitated, fingers lingering on the small brass knob. You felt as if you were in some mockery of a pantomime, playing house with your _murderer._

With a grimace, you opened the drawer and saw that in fact Alastor had been right ( _of course he had_ -). It was the flapper dress Alastor once bought you, a deep emerald green that had flared about your curves sinfully on the dance floor. He had taken great joy in parading you up and down Dauphin Street...

Biting back a groan, you grabbed the dress and changed as quickly as possible, the ache in your shoulder slowing you slightly. Ignoring your reflection in the rounded mirror opposite you, you moved back into the kitchen, arms crossed tightly across your chest.

“Why?” The question came before you could stop yourself.

Alastor turned from where he was puttering above the stove, eyes lighting upon seeing you dressed in such a manner. His smile curved and when he moved forward, his hands were tucked away neatly behind his back. You immediately became aware he was _stalking_ you.

“Why not?” He challenged, glee evident in his voice.

You stood your ground as he walked towards you, hands settled on your hips and a frown tugging at your lips.

“In case you haven't noticed, it's not 1928,” You retorted. “This isn't even fashionable anymore Al, it's just sad.”

He hummed thoughtfully and then clicked his fingers together. The dress changed from its silky green to a deep, crimson red. Your hair was also now curled in the typical flapper fashion, and a delicate pair of heels adorned your feet.

“Quite right, darling. That is much better.” He gave you a wink and turned back to the stove.

You made a noise of disgust, turning on your heel to go throw yourself dramatically on the lounge. The radio tuned to life on its on, filtering through stations until it landed on a waltzy tune. You closed your eyes, willing your growing headache to ease, listening distantly to Alastor moving about in the kitchen, the sounds all so _domestic_ , it made some weird ache blossom in your chest. How much time had you wasted when alive, playing some kind of domestic-role to this man in just this same manner?

Perhaps sensing your unease, your shadows crept down the walls and out from under the furniture, tickling your arms as they moved to envelope you. You could feel wisps trailing across your cheeks and shoulder, as though they were examining the extent of your damage. Hollow voices filled your ears,

_keep you safe/keep you safe/keep you safe_

_always/always/always_

_OURS/OURS/OURS_

Your sigils flared once more, as though in response to the dark magic they possessed. It felt different from when Alastor's touch or power ignited those marks; your shadows seemed to sooth the flame under your skin as they curled around you, the marks sputtering out like candle flames.

You sat up, unease settling in your belly. You eyed Alastor from where he stood in the kitchen; you noticed the paring knife in his clawed hands, moving eerily smoothly through his task. A warning sounded in your head, and you found yourself on your feet, ignoring the twinge of pain in your shoulder. Perhaps while he was distracted...

You raised your hand and were just about to summon yourself a portal to _anywhere else_ , when he turned. You locked eyes and watched his facial expression change from contentment to slight surprise and then morph into anger, the shadow of the beast within flickering over his face, grin wild and dangerous.

Despite the undeniable fear that coiled in your gut, you managed to send him off with a sarcastic salute and then simply stepped _back_ into the dark abyss that materialized at your heels. You felt a rush of air pass your left ear, and it was only once you found your footing in your new location, did you turn your head and see his knife, stuck in the wall behind where you had reappeared. A chill coursed through you. An inch closer-

There were still several hours left before the annual Cleanse would finish, but eyeing the knife, hilt curved towards you from its place in the rotten wood, you firmly decided you'd take your chances.

Cursing the Radio Demon, and feeling slightly better for it, you turned quickly to slink off into the covering shadows, only to look up and blink in surprise at the large, blinking neon light that was fashioned to the building just before you. **PORN STUDIOS** flashed, and with a click of your tongue, you pushed forward. You knew of Valentino, and the thought of perhaps striking a deal of shelter for some work crossed your mind. Besides, no sense in wasting such a pretty outfit.

_Out of the pan and into the fire, as your Daddy always said._

**Author's Note:**

> I feel as though this one is not as strongly written as my other pieces, however, I really enjoyed writing more about Alastor's darker character aspects. As with any abuser, he is quick to fall back into his old habits when it comes to Reader, although it is fun to write her as a more confident creature as time progresses. I want to explore more of Alastor's complex feelings for Reader, however, they will be rather fucked up because, well, it's Alastor. 
> 
> As always, thank you for sinning with me, my deers ;)


End file.
